


Near Death Experience

by Tedronai



Series: Everything Is Better with Asmodean [1]
Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Asmodean Lives, Book 05: The Fires of Heaven, Fix-It, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 09:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1465033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/pseuds/Tedronai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Asmodean doesn't die.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Near Death Experience

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to [pettymotives](http://pettymotives.tumblr.com/), whose [Asmodean art](http://pettymotives.tumblr.com/tagged/my-art) is responsible for... things. Including this fic.  
> This... didn't get as slashy as I thought, but I hope it'll... suffice. //edit: Removed the ship & M/M tags because looking at it, this is really open to interpretation, and since this spawned a whole AU 'verse which is not going for Rand/Asmo, it doesn't make sense to have it here either.

Asmodean was running for his life. In a sense he had been running for his life ever since — since Rhuidean — but right now he did so in a rather more literal sense. He hadn’t stayed to witness the look on Graendal’s face when he had thrown his harp at her the very moment she had loosed the bolt of Balefire—

He had been lucky, so very lucky that the instrument had intercepted the Balefire and been burned out of the Pattern instead of Asmodean himself.

No; he dared not think of that, not yet. Preferably not ever, but especially not until he reached al’Thor. Choking on a scream that kept building up in his chest but couldn’t tear loose, he ran.

 He dashed into the throne room before the Aiel Maidens at the door could stop him; he barely saw them. He saw only al’Thor on the Lion Throne, knew only that Graendal would avoid direct confrontation — oh, please, _please_ let him be right about that! — and that meant safety. He didn’t notice the short man talking to al’Thor before he nearly collided with him. The man sidestepped gracefully out of the way, but Asmodean was not so lucky; he landed hard on the floor at the foot of the dais.

“Light, man, watch where you’re—” the stranger began, then he seemed to register the look on Asmodean’s face and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You look as if you have one of the Forsaken at your heels. Should we be expecting trouble?”

“Natael?” al’Thor asked sharply. He had seized _saidin_ and stood up, towering over everybody else in the room.

Asmodean scrambled to his feet. “My Lord Dragon,” he gasped, suddenly aware that he couldn’t exactly explain that he had seen Graendal — that he recognised her by sight — in a room full of people. _You look as if you have one of the Forsaken at your heels._ The inadvertent hilarity of that statement began to sink in, and the dizzying sense of relief at being alive manifested as more than half-mad, hysterical laughter. He was acutely aware that the Maidens as well as the stranger were giving him odd looks, most likely questioning his sanity, but that merely made him laugh all the harder.

Then al’Thor was standing before him, his hands gripping Asmodean by the shoulders and shaking him. “Natael!” he growled. “Get a grip! What happened?”

Asmodean tried, he really did. “My… My Lord…” he wheezed helplessly. The baffled mix of concern and irritation in the blue-grey eyes staring back at him did not help in the slightest.

“I take it we’re not under attack,” the stranger commented dryly.

“Probably not,” al’Thor said slowly. He shot a glance at the Maidens. “Best remain alert nonetheless.” He frowned at Asmodean, then gently steered the Forsaken aside and sat him down on the stairs before the Lion Throne. When it became clear that Asmodean still wasn’t capable of coherent communication, al’Thor just gave him an awkward pat on the shoulder before turning back to the stranger. “As I was saying, Lord Bashere, you can’t have Taim.”

 Asmodean was no longer sure whether he was laughing or weeping; without sound, his whole body shaking, his breath coming in convulsive gasps, tears running down his face, it might have been either. A detached part of his mind registered all the glances aimed in his direction, ranging from wary to bemused to outright pitying. Another part heard and filed away every word of the conversation between al’Thor and the man called Lord Bashere; one did not survive long among the Chosen without some ability for mental multitasking. Although Asmodean had never expected to use that particular skill to listen in on conversations while having a mental breakdown.

 Al’Thor and Bashere argued for a while longer, about the fellow called Taim and about the state of the world by the sound of it. Asmodean leaned his head against the Lion Throne. The laughter had gradually died down, leaving him feeling drained. He was still more than a little surprised at being alive. When he had opened that door and seen Graendal… The memory made him shudder. He had thought he was dead for sure.

He nearly jumped when a shadow suddenly fell over him, but it turned out to be just one of the Maidens holding out a cup of water to him. Asmodean accepted it with a wry smile. “My thanks.”

 Eventually al’Thor finished his chat with Bashere, and the latter strode out, apparently to dispatch a messenger to the Queen of Saldaea. Al’Thor watched him go, then walked over to where Asmodean was still sitting. “Out with it,” the young Dragon Reborn, ever the eloquent one, said without preamble.

Asmodean looked up at him, then glanced at the Maidens, trying to estimate whether any of them were within earshot. Al’Thor seemed to take the hint, and a ward against eavesdropping sprung into existence. Asmodean closed his eyes briefly and ran a hand over his face. “Graendal,” he said.

“Where?” Al’Thor’s voice was cold steel and the look in his eyes promised thunder.

“Doubt she stayed to wait for me to get you,” Asmodean replied dryly. Al’Thor obviously didn’t appreciate the commentary. Asmodean grimaced. “She was waiting for me behind a door. She must have been watching somewhere. She’ll not risk a confrontation with you, but I was…” _Useless. Defenceless._ The words withered on his tongue.

Al’Thor seemed to catch the meaning nonetheless and nodded. “We’ll have to make sure she doesn’t catch you on your own again,” he said with grim determination. “I don’t intend to lose you yet.”

“Yet,” Asmodean repeated blandly.

Al’Thor, however, ignored the comment. He let the ward drop and raised his voice slightly, clearly meaning it to be heard by the Maidens. “Come on, Natael, there are things to do before the day is over.” Then he was striding off and Asmodean had to hurry to keep up with him.

 

* * *

 

 Late that night Rand lay awake in a wide bed in a luxurious room in the palace. On the other side of the room, Asmodean was sleeping in a camp bed they’d had brought in; neither of them had wanted to give Graendal another chance to sneak up on him. Not that his sleep sounded particularly restful as it was, Rand reflected as he listened to the Forsaken tossing and turning and muttering in his sleep. He was wondering if he should wake the man when Asmodean suddenly sat bolt upright and screamed.

Muttering an oath under his breath, Rand got out of bed to intercept the veiled Maidens that came running in, spears at the ready, scanning the room for attackers. “It’s alright,” Rand assured them. “Just a nightmare.” He herded them out of the door again, and closed the door on their curious faces. With the Aiel out of the way, he went to Asmodean.

 The Forsaken was staring straight forward with glazed eyes and breathing hard, clutching at the sheets with a white-knuckled grip. He didn’t appear to be fully awake or aware of his surroundings. Rand crouched by the bed and cautiously laid a hand on his arm. Asmodean recoiled from the touch, but seemed to finally snap out of the nightmare. He shook his head before looking back at Rand. His eyes were bleak. “Did I wake you?” he asked, affecting indifference, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.

“I was awake,” Rand replied. “And so were the Maidens.”

“The Maidens,” Asmodean repeated faintly. “I hope they weren’t terribly disappointed that there was nothing to stab.”

“They’ll live.”

Asmodean didn’t seem to have anything to add to that. After a while he sighed heavily. “I need a drink.”

Rand didn’t disagree; he could do with one himself. Sadly, he didn’t think there was anything of the sort in the room. As it seemed that neither of them was going to go back to sleep any time soon, he sat on the bed next to Asmodean. “So…” he began. “You want to talk about it?”

The Forsaken glanced at him and gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Not a chance,” he said, and the slight note of hysteria in his voice betrayed just how precariously he was balanced on the edge of another breakdown.

“She won’t have you,” Rand said. “None of them will. I won’t let them.”

“And when I’ve taught you everything I can?” Asmodean asked, not sounding like he really expected to hear anything particularly reassuring. “That day will not be far, restricted as I am. What about when I’m no longer useful to you?”

Rand’s hands clenched into fists; he made them unclench, forced himself to relax before he spoke, “When that day comes, if you have served me faithfully… I am not going to cast you out. I don’t toss people aside like trash once they have _served their purpose_. Light help me, I don’t!”

Asmodean finally turned to look at him properly. There was no hope in that look, not even bitterness or resentment, just bone-deep weariness and the dull resignation of a man who had lived in fear for so long that he could barely remember what it was like to not be afraid. “I should probably say I appreciate the sentiment…”

That was as far as he got. Later, Rand could never be sure which of them made the first move; probably him, because he couldn’t imagine Asmodean taking the initiative in such a way, but he had no memory of doing so either. One moment he was staring at Asmodean, trying to convince himself that he was still a better man than those he fought, and the next moment he was holding the Forsaken in his arms like his life, or maybe both their lives depended on it.

“I’m not going to let them have you,” Rand repeated fiercely, as if he could make it true simply by willing it so.

“You’re almost making me believe that,” Asmodean replied quietly. He shivered, and Rand held him tighter. “If you keep saying that, I just might…” He trailed off and for a while they both contemplated that in silence. “And then… what?” he said in a broken voice. “And then what?”

Rand had no answer to that.


End file.
